


Bury Me Not (On the Lone Prairie)

by Nopride4531



Category: Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-08 12:54:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12864930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nopride4531/pseuds/Nopride4531
Summary: "O' bury me not on the lone prairie.These words came low and mournfullyFrom the pallid lips of a youth who layOn his dying bed at the close of day."





	Bury Me Not (On the Lone Prairie)

II.

"Amnesty," the judge said around his cigar. "You terrorize my town, and you come to me wanting  _amnesty._ " He blew smoke from his nose. "You've got some nerve, I'll give you that."

Butch leaned back in his chair. They'd confiscated his Remington when he'd arrived at the courthouse, and he felt his fingers twitch toward its phantom presence. "Do we have a deal?" He asked, careful to keep his tone neutral.

Silence from Judge Whaley. Butch watched his expression, waiting for some kind of signal, something of an answer.

"We do." Whaley waved his hand. "Now get the hell outta my office."

 

III.

"You know what I think, Butch?" Elzy murmured one night after too much cheap bourbon. "I think you died on those tracks... I think you died with him."

The smallest cabin in Robber's Roost never heated right, even with a fire much-too-big for the fireplace. That never bothered Butch in the past, but that was before the deal, before the tracks.

Butch exhaled smoke. He hated cigars, and his bourbon sat on the nightstand, untouched. From the bed, on top of the covers, jacket and shoes still on, he watched the fire crackle. 

"So do I," he eventually responded, not needing to glance across the room, at Elzy, to see the slight watering in his eyes, watering that could've damn well been the bourbon.

_(It wasn't the bourbon.)_

They sat in silence for a while. The smoke of Butch's cigar and Elzy's pipe floated over them. And then, because of the bourbon, because of the goddamn bourbon:

"You gonna leave it, Butch?"

And, because he was sober, because the fire hadn't lulled him to sleep yet, Butch shook his head.

"Nah." He exhaled more smoke. "Think I'll keep it up for a while."

 

I.

The held him back. That was why he didn't stop it: they fucking  _held him back._

Two days after Judge Whaley promised them amnesty, after the paperwork had been filled out, Butch and Sundance met him at the railroad crossing near Telluride. The outlaws were unarmed--not even a knife. Unprepared. Unwanted.

The exchange of papers, of peace, never happened. Three Pinkertons grabbed Butch, twisted his arms behind his back and forced him to his knees. Gravel dug into his legs and the joints of his elbows and shoulders screamed, but it was secondary, pointless.

They made him watch. The made him watch as Judge Whaley motioned to the head Pinkerton, as that agent put a bullet through Sundance's heart.

Butch didn't know if he screamed or if his ears rang or what. But when they finally let him go, when he scrambled to his feet, when he made it to Sundance's side, it didn't matter anymore. 

**Author's Note:**

> So, this little ficlet was basically a warm-up for my original fiction. It was also based on this prompt: “I can’t lose you like this.”


End file.
